


Songbird

by maybesentient



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Demonic Possession, Demons, Horror, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Magic, Mild Sexual Content, Murder Mystery, Romance, Serial Killers, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Small Towns, Surreal, mlm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 01:16:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18928354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybesentient/pseuds/maybesentient
Summary: Korbin Vaughn has returned to Redwine from rehab with every intention of starting fresh and moving past what happened when he was a child, but horrible things have a habit of never really going away. And, despite the 10-year gap, something truly horrible has returned: a serial killer from Korbin's childhood, the very same one that killed his best friend.Now another child close to him has been taken by the Songbird killer, and Korbin's dead best friend returns from the grave with a message: only Korbin can kill Songbird because he's not your average serial killer-- he's a Demon, and only a Vaughn with magical blood can defeat him.To make matters even more complicated, the mysterious and cocky Oleander King has shown up in town, just strange enough to draw Korbin's attention. Now, not only does he have to find and defeat an ancient murderer, Korbin also has to deal with his own out of control feelings.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> "Songbird" is an original horror/fantasy/romance novel by yours truly, wherein I write about birds and nightmares and falling in love despite the odds. 
> 
> and it's like, really fucking gay

The day of the first death the sky crawls by in a swarm of birds, their forms casting rippling shadows across onlookers that step out of their homes and businesses to stare upward at the encroaching shadows. 

“Crows,” one woman says, knobbly finger pointing to the sky. “Nasty birds, those’uns.”

And her grandson nods absentmindedly, too focused on stacking one of his toy trains on top of another. He’s at the base of the porch steps, sprawled across the cracked sidewalk that leads up to his grandmother’s house, and he couldn’t care less about the birds above. 

The old woman huffs and waves angrily toward the sky as if she alone can shoo all of the crows away. Then she returns to the swinging bench, where’s left her novel and mug of coffee. Her daughter should be arriving to pick up her son for soccer practice soon, and then she will be able to go inside and start on the meatloaf that’s for dinner. She opens her paperback novel and it creaks at the split down the spine, a story she has read countless times.

The boy-- whose name was John Brandt-- knocks over both of his trains, and somewhere beneath the clanking of metal pieces against cement he hears a hum. It’s an odd sound, part human and part harmonica thrum, coming from just around the corner of his grandma’s massive porch. He sets the trains aside and gets to his feet, rubbing at where the rough ground has left small rocks embedded in his knees. The hum grows louder, louder still, but when John Brandt looks over his shoulder his grandma doesn’t seem to notice.

And the hum grows louder. 

It’s some sort of song, like the kinds his mother might have hummed to him while trying to get him to fall asleep when he was younger, but he’s forgotten most of those and he can’t quite place this specific lullaby.

He walks slowly around the corner of the porch, nose scrunched up in confusion. The old woman looks up to see him abandoning his trains, but she assumes that he’s going around to the backyard where his bicycle his.

This is the last time John Brandt is seen alive, though the old woman doesn’t know this until her daughter pulls up and John is nowhere to be found. The two of them circle the house once, then twice, and then a third time, before the mother runs inside and desperately tries to get her hands to stop shaking long enough to call the police. The old grandmother just stands on her porch with one hand pressed against her trembling lips, staring vacantly out toward the lone bird perched on the telephone wires that stretch across the street.

At first, cops say that John probably just wandered into the trees out of boredom, and he got lost somewhere out there-- the ditches run deep, and it’s easy to trip over the gnarled roots of all those old trees. They send search dogs and men out with flashlights, spending the rest of the night shouting “John! Johnny! John Brandt!” out into the shadows of the woods. 

Two days pass, and the grandmother is overwhelmed with guilt in such a way that she collapses, and is quickly transported to a hospital. The mother cries into the arms of her husband, who has returned from a work trip out of town. The men with their flashlights give up searching the woods, informing the mother in their most empathetic tones that perhaps it would be best to stop looking for a living body.

By the fifth day the grandmother has passed away from cardiac arrest, and a news outlet from a much larger city has caught wind of this odd disappearance. Reporters in their massive white vans appear almost as ominously as the storm of crows. The parents beg and plead for anyone, anyone, anyone at all to bring their son back to them.

Anyone.

On the seventh day, John Brandt is found, but it’s the discovery of his body that sparks the truest horror of the deaths: he’s delivered bloodless and tongue-less to the sidewalk just outside his grandmother’s home, where his toy trains still lay forgotten. His blank eyes stare listlessly toward the sky, limbs askew in awkward angles. 

His mother’s screams echo down the early morning streets. No one knows anything about how the body could have gotten there.

This is the first of thirteen deaths.  
.  
.  
.

Once upon a time there was a lovely golden-haired boy from a family that no one knew anything about, and he spent most of his days hiding in his room and reading books where some beautiful damsel in distress would marry her Prince Charming. He delighted in the whimsical settings and quirky side characters, memorizing the most romantic confessions of love and recreating them all alone. He loved Beauty and the Beast, wanted the chance to meet his own monstrous true love. 

The idea that charmed him the most, even so young, was that of True Love’s Kiss. Something meant to make everything better in the end, something you should only share with your ultimate soulmate. This little boy would stay awake all hours of the night and dream of one day having his own spectacular, life-altering kiss.

He never would have guessed that he might be the monster of the story, in the end.


	2. deer in the headlights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Korbin visits an old oak tree before heading home, and Oleander meets a strange creature.

**KORBIN:**

Avery Row is a rehabilitation center near the base of Mount Mansfield, a sprawling white plantation-style establishment with massive windows that face the mountains and azaleas growing in swarms all over the place. It’s one of the more highly rated rehab centers in the state of Vermont, with compliments most often geared toward the exceptional psychiatrists. My compliments go to the cats that occasionally roam the grounds, strays drawn in by the younger patients with treats or loners like me that sit by themselves and pose no threat at all to a slightly domesticated version of an apex predator.

There’s one cat, in particular, that seems to like me most of all, a skinny little black cat with only one eye that I happily named Thor. He always finds me whenever I’m reading by myself, sitting right beside my feet that I have stretched out in front of me and waving his long tail slowly over his shoulders. Eventually he knows I’ll get up and sneak fish or chicken out of the kitchen for him, so he’s always been content to wait me out.

Today I’m sitting where I usually do, legs pulled up to my chest and a plate with some leftover tuna in front of me. The cooks made tuna salad today and I was able to convince one of them to leave just a small portion for my feline friend, an act of kindness I was happy to receive on my last day here.

Thor comes around the corner with a curious meow, one large blue eye blinking slowly at me. I’m almost surprised when he completely ignores the food in favor of coming up to where my arms are wrapped around my legs and slowly rubbing his cheek along my forearm. The urge to cry bubbles up uncomfortably in my throat but I swallow the sensation, instead slowly moving my arm to scratch just under Thor’s chin. He purrs approvingly, then slinks past me toward where he had come from. I’m almost certain he’s going to leave and I’m never going to see him again, until he looks over his shoulder in a surprisingly human expression of waiting.

I’ve been at Avery Row for the past year and a half, and in that time not once has Thor ever interacted with me outside of this little alley between the library and the dining hall. I can’t imagine why he would be looking at me like he’s waiting for something, but the burning curiosity in my chest propels me onto my feet and forward as Thor begins idly walking away.

We walk around to the back part of the library, and area that I rarely see since I’ve stuck to the same routine for most of my time here. This part of Avery Row isn’t off-limits, necessarily; it’s just cautioned against as there’s less surveillance past the buildings, only open land for a good mile before the fence surrounding Avery Row is reached. When I first arrived the fence felt like a prison, or a cage in an animal shelter, but now I see it for what it is: a way to keep the wrong sort of people out, and the people who need saving in. 

“Thor,” I whisper-yell, because despite knowing no one is around to hear me there’s still an anxious knot in my chest at the thought of being found out. “Thor where are you going?”

Thor, of course, says nothing. I continue following him until we reach trees, where he stops at the roots of a large oak tree. It’s trunk stretches several stories high, the limbs of it’s branches reaching toward heaven and bursting with vivid green. It doesn’t look like any of the other trees around it, those are all sugar maples, but it also feels like it’s been here for ages.

“Thor, what’s this?”

Thor hops up onto the exposed roots and makes a weird cat noise at me. When he turns back it looks like he’s winking, and I find myself climbing up onto the roots alongside him. I’m bracing myself against the trunk of tree when the hum starts, and a feeling of dread creeps up between my ribs. It’s an old, familiar sound, like—

“Korbin? Are you alright?”

I turn my head and Dr. Daugherty is standing at the mouth of the small alley, looking at me over the top of his horned rimmed glasses. I unwind myself from my curled up position on the ground and Thor looks up at me from the plate that he’s licking clean.

“Sorry, sir, I uh-- I got caught up saying goodbye to a friend.”

“That’s alright. Your aunt’s here, though… are you ready to leave now?”

One of the prerequisites of leaving Avery Row was being put on medication to dampen the hallucinatory visions that brought me here in the first place. I agreed and my aunt signed the waivers with me, but there’s one drawback to all of this: the meds have never worked.

I smile, but it feels sour and wrong. “Sure thing, doc.”  
.  
.  
.

Marjorie Vaughn looks the same as always, black hair down to her waist and high cheekbones dotted with freckles from all her days of gardening. She’s standing by the front doors of the Avery Row lobby with both hands on her hip, looking around at all of the decor with a distant expression of bemusement.

“Marge,” I say quietly and she turns to me so fast her hair whips around her shoulders as a wild grin spreads across her face. Sometimes when she smiles I see a flash of my mom, with her dimpled cheeks and striking green eyes, and I can almost convince myself that Laurel Vaughn is still around. 

“Binny!” Marjorie exclaims happily, surging forward to wrap her strong arms around me in a hug that sweeps me off my feet. Her next words are muffled against my shoulder. “Oh, I’m so happy to see you.”

“I’m happy to see you too.” I hug her as close to myself as I can, like I’m trying to absorb all of her strength and warmth. Despite Redwine only being an hour’s drive away from Avery Row I don’t get to see Marjorie very often. She works the graveyard shift at the hospital in town and sleeps during the mornings before going to a part-time job as a waitress at a diner downtown. She comes by at least once every two weeks, but that’s never been enough.

Hugging her now isn’t enough. I feel her start to pull back from the hug and I want to cling to her and beg her to not let go of me this time, but I’m not ten years old anymore— I allow myself to be pushed back a step, her smile a well of comfort.

“Let’s go home, Binny.”  
.  
.  
.

Once in the car and twenty minutes away from Avery Row, Marjorie reaches across my legs and pops open the glove compartment to reveal my phone atop the pile of insurance papers. I glance at her as I pick it up, her eyes flashing in the passing glow of a streetlight.

“Jonah called your phone five different times today, and mine three. Dunno how he knew you were getting out today, but he was acting like someone lit a fire under his ass.”

I laugh at the imagery, powering on my phone with a slow inhale. I haven’t talked to my friends since I left for Avery Row: communication on my end was pretty limited, and despite Marjorie making sure all of them knew they were allowed to visit me under her and the doctor’s supervision, none of them ever stopped by.

A nervous flutter builds in my stomach at the thought that maybe, Jonah was calling so urgently to let me know I wasn’t allowed to be a part of the squad anymore. Maybe I’ve been kicked out of the group chat. Maybe they’ve all moved on and forgotten about me, and— 

“Did you answer any of his calls?”

Marjorie shakes her head. “He called while I was sleeping. You’d think after knowing me for nearly eighteen years he’d know that I sleep in the mornings. Why couldn’t you befriend an Ivy League type of guy?”

I can’t help but grin. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides, Jonah’s smarter than me any day.”

“Only because he knows not to stick his hand in a burning fire, unlike you,” Marjorie throws back, glancing over at me with a sharp smile. “I think he left you some voicemails, Binny if you want to listen to them.”

If. Because Marjorie knows me better than almost everybody else, and she knows all of the worst-case scenarios that are racing through my mind. I have the option to ignore the voicemails, at least for now. But I also miss the sound of my best friend’s voice, which is why I find myself fumbling to unlock my phone and hit the NEW VOICEMAILS notification.

The automated message goes through its usual dialogue, and then Jonah is laughing breathlessly on the other end.

“Hey, Vaughn.” I can picture his smile so vividly in my mind’s eye that I feel like I’m looking right at him. “Aya told me she heard from Marjorie that you’re coming back from Avery Row today and— and you’re, you know, probably going to want to be alone for a bit, I get that. But like, if— if you ever wanna get together, I’d love that. I, well. We miss you. All of us. I mean, shit, Phoenix has been worrying herself sick about you all year. So, um… Yeah. Just lemme know, okay?” 

He sighs, and then the recording cuts short, and I don’t realize I’m not breathing until Marjorie reaches over to run her fingers through my hair near the nape of my neck. “Binny, hun… They all love you so much.”

“You talked to Aya?”

Marjorie huffs, pulling her hand back. “Of course I did. She asks about you constantly. I mean, you were so close with—” 

“You do remember the last time we saw each other, right? That’s the whole reason I went to Avery Row in the first place.” I shut my phone off again, shoving it into the pocket of my jacket and doing my best to forget that it’s there. “Jonah might have good intentions, and I’m sure Phoenix genuinely does care, but Aya… Yeah, no.”

“Korbin—”

“I’ll think about.” I offer Marjorie a small smile, shaking my head. “I’ll sleep tonight and maybe reach out to Jonah tomorrow. Okay? I promise that I’ll try.”

“Okay, Binny.” Marjorie nods, and we continue on toward Redwine. The drive stays quiet, with only the low sounds of The Cure filling the silence as it crackles out of the radio, and eventually I find myself staring out toward the darkening sky. I wonder if Thor will find another lonely soul to glean snacks off of, who probably won’t know that Thor is obviously the best name for him.

I wonder if that tree on the edge of the grounds was really there, and why Thor wanted me to see it. I wonder why it hummed a song so familiar and painful.

 _You are my sunshine, you are my sunshine_  
 _you make me happy_  
 _when skies are gray_  
.  
.  
.

My room is the same as I remember it being, vintage Broadway posters up on my walls and books stacked haphazardly around my desk rather than on the actual bookshelf. My bed’s been made, and I can picture Marjorie coming in every few weeks to clean the sheets. 

Marjorie stops behind me at the door, wrapping both arms around my waist as she lays her head on my shoulder. “Are you happy to be back, Binny?”

“Of course, Marge.” I lean back slightly, laying my arms over hers. “Redwine might be incredibly boring, but it beats being stuck in the mountains. Also, you’re here.”

Marjorie’s arms tighten around my waist for just a moment, her chin digging into my shoulder before she pulls back. I turn to watch her and Marjorie is smiling softly up at me, shaking her head. “I hope that things can be better for you in the future, Binny. You’re going to do great things.”

“Stop,” I groan, rolling my eyes at the look she’s giving me. Childhood dreams of being an actor seem less realistic now. If anything, I just want to settle down in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of books and a lifetime’s supply of tea. “Can I just go to sleep without you being all weird?”

“I mean, you could, but that would require me to stop being weird.” Marjorie laughs, leaning forward to reach out and squish my cheeks together. “And I’m just so glad to have my bunny back.”

With a wail of anguish, I pull away from Marjorie, reaching up to rub my cheeks. “Not funny.”

“Okay, okay.” We stand in silence for a moment longer before she sighs, looking down the hall. “I’ll leave you to it then. Get some rest, okay?”

“Of course.”

We hug one more time before Marjorie walks down the hall toward the living room, and I turn back into my own bedroom. My attention is immediately drawn to the pictures taped above my bed, amidst the posters. Pictures of me with my friends over the years, from our days as young children up until graduation. Jonah’s dimpled smile is still the same as it was when he was ten, and Phoenix’s hair has gone through at least eight different colors across the years. It’s the pictures with Aya that cause a weird knot to form in my chest. 

She didn’t change much, over the years. Aya always kept her hair short around her shoulders, and it was rare to catch her smiling a genuine smile. There are quite a few pictures of me with my arm across her shoulders. But the part that hurts— the part that aches— is the girl on my other side. The girl in over half of the pictures.

“Em,” I whisper, eyes stinging with the urge to cry. Emrys Hyunh-Rivera looks exactly like her twin sister Aya, but while Aya kept her hair short Em loved her wild curls. Both of them had much lighter hair when they were children, though Aya’s hair quickly turned to a dark brown.

Em’s hair never got that chance, as she died at the age of ten.

I turn away from my bed and those pictures, pressing my lips tight together. I don’t want to think about Em right now; being home is supposed to mean starting over. Instead of allowing myself to stand and think too hard about Em I turn to the window beside my bed, shoving aside the large gray curtain and pulling the window up to reveal the long stretch of the roof outside. The slope isn’t too steep, making this small portion of the roof a wonderful place to sit and reflect— or sunbathe, if you’re Phoenix, and Jonah used this part of the roof to climb into the tree next to my house just to test his ability to not fall and break something.

I climb through the window and settle down on the rough tiles of the roof, pulling my knees up to my chest in a replica of how I had been sitting in that alley. Thor’s slow, singular blink plays back in my mind, as does that old tree that stood out against the backdrop of the mountains. The longer I think about it the more the branches stretch into the sky, gnarled fingers clawing the blue out of the sky. The hum builds in the back of my mind, a song that morphs into a voice that I just can’t place.

But I’ve heard it before. It’s been a decade, but I know I’ve heard that hum before.  
.  
.  
.

**OLEANDER:**

It’s nearing midnight and I know Aunt Mim will be furious if I don’t return within the hour, but Aunt Sparrow’s truck is a comforting roar all around me and the wind whistling through the open windows feels wonderful across my face. It’s rare that I’m able to talk any of my aunts into letting me out this late at night, and I’m not about to cut this adventure short. Instead I turn the radio up a few notches louder, letting Styx drown out even my own heartbeat. “Come Sail Away” rattles out of the speakers, and a sharp smile twists across my face.

“Funny,” I mutter to nobody, tightening my grip on the wheel as I turn into a neighborhood I’ve been through countless times. I always find myself riding down these roads, whenever given the chance, and I enjoy looking out across each individual yard and seeing a different story.

The family with the basketball hoop and five bikes thrown haphazardly across the lawn. The house with several potted plants littering the porch in various states of life and death. The doors with their hand-painted signs that spell out various surnames in bright colors against thematic shapes. Tire swings and open containers of chalk and windchimes that dance soundlessly in the night. A few windows are still lit, emitting a warm orange glow through translucent curtains.

_A gathering of angels appeared above my head_   
_They sang to me this song of hope and this is what they said_

A low hum sputters through the static alongside Styx, and I reach over to turn the volume down a bit to lessen the hum. It persists, just barely in tune with the music. Dennis DeYoung’s voice is broken up by static in short bursts, but right when I look down to turn the radio off something moves quickly in front of the truck and I’m quick to slam on my brakes. My body is flung forward into the steering wheel, barely stopped by the seat belt that digs into my shoulder, and I can feel my heart hammering it’s way up my throat. 

There’s a deer in the middle of the road or at least something that looks like a deer. Its fur is too dark, almost black, and its antlers curl downward around it’s face. It slowly turns its head and instead of two wide eyes looking back at me, there’s only a singular eye, flashing bright in the headlights.

I lean forward, almost on impulse, and the deer stares back at me with something that feels like curiosity. And then it _smiles._

A horrible, human smile. I can feel the smile, somehow, feel those sharp teeth digging into my flesh, can feel the ripping sensation along my spine. A bone-deep horror crawls through me but I am unable to put the car in reverse, only capable of staring out at this awful creature before me. I’m so certain that this is going to be how it ends for me, and not any of the other awful things I had envisioned throughout my childhood. Until—

“Hey, asshole! People are trying to sleep!”  
.  
.  
.

**KORBIN:**

The night is quiet and still, broken up only by the occasional car that drifts through the neighborhood, and I can feel myself beginning to drift off the cool night air washes over me. Then a truck skids to a sudden halt in the middle of the street and I almost fall off the roof when the noise scares me. I scramble back up the tiles and hold onto the windowsill, looking down in fury at the truck that seemingly stopped for no reason. 

“Hey asshole!” I yell down to the truck, not even thinking to question the irony of the following statement. “People are trying to sleep!”

I can barely make out the driver, just hands gripping the steering wheel and the faint outline of a person’ face. But when they turn to look at me I’m so sure I can feel their eyes on me, staring not just at but through me. Then they turn away and something unravels in my chest, allowing me to exhale the breath I hadn’t realized I had been holding. 

A moment passes and they slowly begin driving again, the faint sounds of Styx carrying up to my perch on the roof.

_Come sail away with me, come sail away_

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: probablysentient  
> twitter: maybesentient  
> wattpad: probablysentient  
> pinterest: maybesentient


End file.
